


Waking Up Is Harder

by mneiai



Series: Still Gone [2]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-20
Updated: 2009-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:29:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mneiai/pseuds/mneiai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder's 'cure' has gone out to the world, but not everyone is as happy about it as the president.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking Up Is Harder

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Tomorrow Never Came.

Mohinder still wasn't sure how the public fell for it. When they returned to D.C., Sylar had already fed his people a story of a kidnapping by his terrorist brother, how Peter had stayed invisible and then grabbed him, flying off. It was ridiculous, but Mohinder was beginning to realize that a ridiculous lie would always win over a ridiculous truth.

They stepped into the White House amid a flurry of movement and cheering. People congratulated Parkman on his fast thinking and expressed regret that none of his people had survived their attempt to save the president. Only Mohinder, Sylar, and Parkman walked out alive, the few who had still been breathing, but could have questioned the story had been…put down. Mohinder knew this wasn't the beginning of such things, but felt as if there was something building, some new energy surrounding Sylar that was far from comforting.

"We had managed to apprehend Hiro Nakamura," Sylar-as-Nathan began to explain the events in more detail to his advisers. Mohinder sat at his right, glasses flashing in the dim lighting, a security blanket in between him and the others, who were eating up every word the president said just like Mohinder used to. "We didn't make any announcements, not wanting to give away this fact to his fellow terrorists, but somehow my…Peter Petrelli found out. He wanted to use me as leverage, try to free Hiro _and_ prevent us from handing out Dr. Suresh's cure."

For a moment, all attention was on Mohinder. He found himself bowing his head as whispered words of congratulations were shot his way. He couldn't stand it, the false hope of these people stinging his skin. The others in the room would think it was modesty, that it was still more proof of what a good person Mohinder was.

The meeting died down after that, with only a few more details (that Nakamura and Petrelli were well and truly dead, that they'd lost many fine young men in the battle) to be handed out like treats to the eager advisers. When Mohinder moved to leave his seat as everyone else did, Sylar's hands were already descending on his shoulders, morphing into his true ones once the door had closed behind the last person.

"I need to return to my apartment, I still have classes tomorrow." He tried to stand, but the hands were still there.

"I had them canceled."

Mohinder took a deep breath to keep himself from demonstrating any anger, though he knew Sylar could sense it and…with Peter's powers, Mohinder realized that Sylar could very well be hearing his thoughts after spending the helicopter ride back sitting across from Parkman (and pressed up against Mohinder's side, running his hand up and down Mohinder's thigh as if he'd never gotten to touch him before, despite all the history they shared).

"In fact, I think you should resign. You never needed the money they gave you, you knew that I--that Nathan--would provide you with whatever you wanted. And it's a waste of your time and brilliance." He was laying it on thick, but Mohinder wasn't surprised. Sylar gave compliments just as he liked to receive them: obvious, yet truthful.

"I like teaching. And once…the cure has been administered, I'll have quite a bit of time. If the school will still have me." They wouldn't, he would be a pariah, the man who murdered millions--his name would be used alongside Sylar's.

The laugh wasn't what he was expecting, and the lips that descended onto the top of his head made him flinch. "You don't think I've thought of that? No one will blame you for this, Mohinder, all of the top experts will agree that the cure should have worked, that the consequences were unforeseen. Something no one could have predicted."

Sylar was rubbing his shoulders, nuzzling Mohinder's hair with his cheek. It took entire moments for Mohinder to realize that Sylar was attempting to comfort him. This was worse than he thought: If he had become something to…cherish…in whatever way it was possible for a megalomaniacal serial killer to cherish someone, then Sylar would never allow him to escape. Mohinder could almost see the rest of his life manifesting before his eyes, trapped tight under Sylar's influence.

"In less than a month, this will all be over with. You'll have no reason to continue researching metahumans, you can return to the work you were doing before." Sylar paused, leaning around Mohinder to brush their lips together, far softer than he used to. "Or, you can simply _not_ work. You won't want for anything, Mohinder, you can finally relax."

There was a soft knock on the door before Mohinder could respond. He was glad because he knew whatever he responded with would have angered even the currently mellow Sylar. He managed to slide out of the room as an aid entered, shutting the door behind him and speed walking down the hallway, just in case Sylar didn't take all that long with whatever business he had.

Mohinder went home to an apartment that Sylar provided, in a building that the government owned, surrounded by security and tucked away in a safe suburb. It was as much an anonymous prison as the secret lab Mohinder spent most of his time in, and the out of the way office that Sylar had convinced the university to give Mohinder, instead of the tiny hole in the wall in the biology department he was supposed to have.

He had thought Nathan was doing him favors he couldn't refuse, but he realized now it was Sylar finding new ways to own him.

***

Two weeks later, it was over--all the known metahumans, and many who the government hadn't known about, were dead. It was viewed as a welcome tragedy, people crying out at the loss of life while giving a sigh of relief that they no longer had quite so much to fear.

While plagued by guilt, Mohinder was free from blame from most quarters. The poison had been a prototype cure before they realized just how fatal it was. All the preliminary tests run on the drug by the experts studying it for the Congressional inquest were puzzling over why it hadn't worked (while expressing stunned praise in academic circles at just how advanced Mohinder's research had been).

Sylar-as-Nathan gave speech after unifying speech and did nothing to quell the rumors that he was trying to set up a true global government, as he'd already taken control of much of North America only a year before, when the metahuman holocaust gained popularity abroad.

***

"A week since the events of what is now being called 'M-Day,' when the majority of the world's metahumans were accidentally killed, the major newspapers are leading with a different story: A story of hope, of finding love in the harshest of circumstances. Aly Riley-Giovengo reports."

"Thank you, Joshua. I'm here at the scene of a surprising rally being held in the streets of New York City. At first glance, it may look like a political protest, or a gay rights parade. In reality, it's a little of both. In recent days there's been speculation, caused by a series of photos, over the relationship between the president and well-known geneticist Dr. Mohinder Suresh.

"Seen here, the first picture, which appeared on M-Day itself, is of President Petrelli comforting Dr. Suresh after they were told of the deaths Suresh's near-cure caused. Later photos continued this trend, with hugs, caresses, and kisses far more intimate than the president has ever been in public.

"There had been some talk early on in the presidency of a relationship between the two, due to the known closeness. It had never been denied, but there had been no proof. People moved on, there were more important things to focus on, after all.

"But now there's no question of homophobia: Not when we're talking about two heroes in love. And the people here come from all walks of life, are conservative and liberal, and are more than willing to show their support."

"President Petrelli has worked so hard for us, he deserves to be happy." "Dr. Suresh has tried so hard, he needs someone who can understand what he's going through." "Even presidents and scientists deserve a little romance." "They're so cute together, and the president has been alone for so long, I really hope everything works out!"

"As you can see, not only is there a lack of public outcry at the suggestion of a gay president, there seems to only be encouragement for the match…."

***

Mohinder slammed the remote down after he'd turned off the TV, standing and pacing in front of his large couch, unable to comprehend what was happening. He had known they were being too open, had told Sylar to stop, whispering so softly no one else would hear that Sylar should stop touching him, should move away, should focus on something else. Sylar ignored him or, worse, found Mohinder's "worrying" amusing.

There had been a small hope that politics would make Sylar stop, that he'd be so interested in ruling the world (no, being given the world to rule) that he'd give up Mohinder to keep popular support. Now that didn't look like it would be possible. Despite everything, Sylar might even see a public relationship with Mohinder as furthering his goals.

"Fuck."

"What's the matter?"

Mohinder jumped, clamping down on the gasp he almost released. "Sylar."

"And here I thought you had forgotten me." Sylar walked around him, sitting down on the couch and pulling Mohinder towards him, so that he was forced to straddle Sylar's legs. "Didn't you like the report? All those people marching out there, just wanting President Petrelli and his lover to be happy."

"You get off on that, don't you? How the people worship Nathan, never knowing it's someone they fear and hate who's behind the mask." Mohinder leaned forward, dark eyes locked on dark eyes. "But all that attention, all that reverence--it's for Nathan. Even dead, he's the one that's _special_."

Mohinder was thrown to the floor and he relished it. It was rare for Sylar to lose his temper, especially with Mohinder who he felt was some sort of confidante, ally. But Mohinder knew what to push, which weaknesses Sylar would always have, no matter how much power he gained. After all, despite Sylar's abilities, it was still Nathan who was president, Nathan's name that history would remember as a symbol of greatness and triumph against adversity. It would even, Mohinder thought maliciously, hoping that Sylar had his telepathy turned on, Nathan who history would state was Mohinder's partner.

One telekinetic shove into the far wall (hard enough to make flashes go off in his eyes) convinced Mohinder that Sylar had been listening in on his thoughts. He struggled because it was natural, though he knew even if he managed to get free, he had nowhere to go. The only way to escape Sylar was to kill him, but if the right people found the body, they'd know what had happened, would start a manhunt for the man who murdered the president.

"You," Sylar's voice jarred Mohinder from his mind, attention focusing solely on Sylar, just the way he liked it, "don't know how to accept a good thing. You think everything should be a trial, so you fight me, even though you want me, want there to be an _us_." Facing him was Sylar the predator, Sylar the killer. He hadn't really seen this aspect of his personality since before the bomb, it was almost comforting.

"And you don't know how to accept that you're a nobody. Having to play at being somebody else because you fucked up your own life. What part of being a cannibalistic serial killer sounded like a _good idea at the time_?"

***

Mohinder groaned, eyes opening slowly against the slight amount of light in the unfamiliar room. He was on a plush bed, body cocooned in covers and head nestled in a mound of pillows. It wasn't at all what he had been expecting when he had been knocked out--a good part of him hadn't been expecting to wake up at all.

He smelled the breakfast before he saw it, sitting on a table across the expanse of the room. The furniture, while not familiar, all fell into a style that was. He was somewhere in the White House, tucked in a bed in Sylar's home.

A rustle of movement brought his attention to a chair beside the bed, where Parkman was folding up that morning's newspaper. "You shouldn't antagonize him. You of all people should know that no matter how warm and cuddly he is, he's still _Sylar_."

Mohinder snorted at the choice of adjectives. "He won't kill me."

"No, he won't," Parkman answered as if it had been a question, then eyed him as Mohinder rose from the bed, wrapping a sheet around his waist. "But he'll hurt you. This was nothing compared to what he can do, compared to what he _has_ done."

There were no clothes set out for him. Mohinder's eyes went, filled with dread, to the wardrobe at the side of the room. Sure enough, it was filled with clothing. Some of it had been taken from his apartment, Sylar or Parkman or a trusted drone having gone through his life and packed it up. The clothing that was new was more disturbing, the perfect sizes and styles, designer and more expensive than Mohinder would ever buy for himself.

He took out the most casual, oldest clothing he had been left and began to change. Ignoring Parkman's presence was made easy by the fact that Mohinder knew that Parkman was heterosexual bordering on asexual with all of his energy focused on his duties. Parkman intimidated him, but he wasn't all that scary.

"He has me trapped," Mohinder supplied into the silence.

Parkman shifted in his seat, fiddling with the newspaper. "He has you right where he wants you. Vulnerable, without any other options. If you leave, he would say you were kidnapped and the entire world would be out searching for you. If you piss him off just a little too much, the right documents find their way into the right hands and suddenly that 'cure' wasn't a mistake, but premeditated genocide. And the entire world will want you dead."

"…What can I do?"

"Sit back, take advantage of being the beloved of the most powerful man in the world. Have fun, get anything you could ever want, spend the rest of your life living in luxury. Or kill him in his sleep and hope to whatever gods you still believe in that the Nathan illusion doesn't stick to his dead body."

Mohinder slipped a sweater over his head and turned so he could watch Parkman's expression, even though he had a tendency to keep his face carefully blank. "And what would you do?"

"You already know the answer to that." Parkman threw the paper down on the bed and left the room with a casual wave of his hand.

Sighing, Mohinder glanced down at the headline, fighting the rising bile in the back of his throat at the words: "President Petrelli Supports Gay Marriage Bill."

***

"I'm sorry, Dr. Suresh," one of the guards said, blocking the way into the building.

"Excuse me?"

"We have orders not to let you in. There's been some terrorist activity targeted at research facilities--"

"This is my lab. I have been using this lab for years. If the President has a problem, he can talk to me in person." Mohinder pushed past the guard, knowing the man wouldn't dare lay a hand on him.

He'd allowed Sylar to distract him from work for an entire week and then, when he would have gone back, random attacks began happening in government labs all over the country. It was suspiciously convenient timing, but at the same time the rage that Sylar demonstrated was not faked. It was an unhappy sort of coincidence. But the attacks weren't lessening, and weren't coming any closer to D.C. than Pennsylvania, and Mohinder was mind numbingly bored in his apartment (which he had gone back to despite Sylar's protests), wiling away the days waiting for Sylar to be freed from his presidential duties.

Even though there was no longer any use for a "cure," he still felt the need to be doing something useful. He was the world's foremost expert on metahumans, on an endangered species that was more interesting than any other. There must be something left, some unknowns he could still explore.

He strode through the building, swiping his key card, pressing buttons in various codes, even removing his glasses for a retinal scan. He nodded and greeted everyone he ran into by name, exchanging pleasantries with the staff that he had never been able to get close to do to a high turnover rate. Thirty feet from his private lab were another set of doors, leading to an extremely secure hallway, leading to another door, and then, finally, the room that no one had been in since just before the "cure" was released. It was comforting to see something hadn't changed at all, when the entire world outside had.

There were papers piled high on his desk. He shuffled through them, but was unable to read past the headers. It was all information on the poison he'd accidentally developed, that Sylar had used so efficiently in so many different parts of the world. He opened up a random drawer and shoved them all in, then rooted through his computer folders, looking only at files that had been created before the last few sets of trials.

There was a section that had almost nothing to do with the "cure" that he happily delved into, having almost forgotten its existence. Blueprints and reports on devices they'd made in an attempt to mimic the Haitian's powers. It had been one failure after another, even though the very last of them had shown some promise: a "grenade" like weapon, capable of knocking out a metahuman's powers for almost half an hour. It had been extremely expensive, so much so that it would only have been commissioned for use against the most dangerous of metahumans. But a raid that justified that expenditure had also justified the presence of the Haitian, meaning that the grenade wasn't needed. But the Haitian was dead and there had been rumors that whoever was attacking the labs were metas.

If nothing else, Mohinder thought as he pulled up the list of equations for the device's settings, it would give him something to do. He immediately began to plug in new numbers, refined in the two years since anyone had worked on the grenade.

It felt good, when he left his private lab and began to make rounds in other sections of the building, handing out tasks and partial blueprints to some of his better engineers. It felt good to be back in a working environment, to have control over something.

***

Sylar always came to Mohinder's apartment at the same time. He would bring dinner prepared by the White House chef, still steaming hot and delicious. Mohinder rarely felt like eating, but he knew that if he didn't do it voluntarily, it would be Sylar's telekinesis making him hold the fork, raise it to his mouth, and chew and swallow the food. That was a level of submission he wasn't willing to fall to, even if he was sure Sylar would take some sick pleasure in the control it would demonstrate.

"You're working on something new." Sylar didn't need prompting, didn't supply where he had heard this information from, didn't even word the sentence like a question.

Mohinder's lips quirked in a parody of a smile. "No, just an old project that caught my eye again."

"Will it benefit us?"

They were smiling at each other, all teeth. "Don't you mean to ask if it will benefit you?"

Sylar laughed, a laugh that was far too manic to ever be Nathan. When they were alone, Mohinder wondered how Sylar could be such a good actor.

***

Mohinder had hit the panic button as soon as he noticed someone in the room, but nothing had happened. Alarms had been going off for entire minutes before he realized that all of the guards must have been taken out--getting to Mohinder would have been their first priority. The only thing the panic button served to do was lockdown the lab. And trap Mohinder inside a room with one of the terrorists.

"Dr. Suresh," his voice was deep, penetrating the panicking thoughts beginning to form.

"What do you want?"

Mohinder began to move back, resting his hands against his desk, sliding them along behind him. He couldn't recall anything on the desk that could work as a weapon, had never even thought about leaving something out for such a situation. In the top drawer he had syringes, pre-filled with the "cure," a feature of his lab he hadn't even been able to touch in order to get rid of. But that would be too obvious, he would never be able to open the drawer, draw out a syringe, uncap it, and not have the man notice. And forewarning with the sort of flimsy weapon a needle was meant that it would be useless. He knew this man was a meta, though Mohinder had yet to be given a demonstration of what his powers were, which would be the most important piece of information if he was going to try to fight.

"We want your research. We know that fucking poison wasn't a mistake and we're going to prove it." The man was walking forward, closer and closer to where Mohinder stood, trying not to shake. "If you cooperate, we'll let you live for now."

"My, there's a comforting thought."

"Don't be cute." The man gestured to Mohinder's computer with one hand, holding up a small portable hard drive with the other. "Copy the files onto this."

Mohinder flinched. "I can't, it's--."

"You're defending that Hitler wannabe?" The man was looming over Mohinder, now, in a way that was meant to be intimidating.

But Mohinder had been given enough time to recover from his initial fear, realizing instead that this man, this terrorist, was nowhere near as frightening as Sylar. And he wouldn't survive, one way or the other, if the man touched one hair on Mohinder's body Sylar would make him beg for death. It was an oddly comforting idea.

"The files cannot be copied. At least, not without both myself and--and the president here." He'd almost slipped, thinking of Sylar instead of the fake Nathan he was. That would have been brilliant, saying Sylar and waiting for someone to put the pieces together.

The man's frustration was so strong it could have physically manifested. "You're a scientist, you've gotta have a way around that."

"I'm a geneticist, I'm lucky I can work a keyboard." Which…wasn't entirely true, but sounded good.

"Than we'll just have to take it with us." The man grabbed up the tower, pulling the wires from it. "And since you're probably about to tell me about some password, or voice identification, or some shit like that, you're coming with us, too."

Mohinder's eyes widened, then flicked towards the door. It was still locked, the entire building was still locked down. How was this man planning on leaving? And with a computer tower _and_ the most recognizable scientist on the planet. He let his mind scream out, for Sylar, Parkman, some past incarnation of Hiro Nakamura that was still alive and a smart enough terrorist to know that kidnapping Mohinder was only a good idea if the kidnapper's goal was the total destruction of every city in between him and Sylar.

He made his move, slumping down as if too scared to support his own weight, hand falling to the drawer, pulling it open, wrapping around one of the glass tubes. In the same instance the alarm went off, which meant, yes, the door began to open, the shuffling of military-issue boots catching in Mohinder's ear. He lunged forward. The man, torn between the door and Mohinder was looking wildly about, and then, at the very last second, when the tip of Mohinder's needle would have made contact with the man's chest, it instead went straight through him. As did Mohinder's arm, and the rest of his body. He snapped his head around just in time to see the man make a run for the wall. And go straight through it.

"Dr. Suresh!" voices screamed from the other side of the slow-moving door. Then he heard murmurs and gasps of "Mr. President," "President Petrelli," and knew that Sylar had arrived. Mohinder stayed where he had fallen to the floor, taking deep breaths that were not quite gasps, waiting for the moment when Sylar-as-Nathan would come rushing in with more anger and concern than Mohinder could handle.

The medic on hand told him he was in shock, not phased at the sight of the president cuddling Mohinder to him and barking orders at the guards entering behind him. Mohinder was shaking, biting into his lip to ward off a giggle that was attempting to escape. It had all meant nothing: the terrorist didn't gain anything except a piece of hardware that would be wiped clean after the third attempt to guess the password and they had lost nothing except a few hundred dollars worth of plastic and metal.

When Parkman entered and rolled his eyes at the scene, Mohinder finally relaxed. He knew he was safe with Sylar, but Parkman would get something done.

"I want those people found. Now," Sylar huffed out from where he was clinging to Mohinder like a child who had almost lost a favorite stuffed animal. "And I want them to _pay_."

"Right away, Mr. President. I already have some of my people are working to identify the terrorists to track them down."

"Good, good." He stood and brought Mohinder with him. "He hurt Mohinder, Parkman. He doesn't get away with that." The last was hissed in a dark tone, more Sylar than Nathan, and Mohinder finally noticed how everyone around them was trying to ignore them."

"I know, sir." Parkman offered Mohinder a smarmy smile.

"Good, then we'll be going." Sylar motioned to the half dozen secret service agents waiting in the corridor as they walked by them. "I want double guard on both of us."

There was a car waiting for them, it was perhaps the most secure of its kind, designed specifically for transporting POTUS during times of crisis. It had seen surprisingly little use.

They climbed in, a guard who had been trained to see everything except them following. He sat across from them, dark shades covering eyes that were careful not to watch them. Sylar's hands hadn't left Mohinder once and when they were seated he all but pulled Mohinder onto him. It was as though he believed that, somehow, they could merge together, Mohinder could become a part of him, indestructible just as he was.

Sylar didn't say a word, his fingers tapping out a steady pattern in beat with the ticking of his watch. It made Mohinder wonder what would come out of his mouth if Sylar were to try speaking, what he was afraid the third man in the car would hear.

When they reached the White House, they were ushered in with all the fanfare of security Mohinder had come to see as just another part of life. In moments they were sequestered in the president's living area and Sylar was stretching to get comfortable in his own form.

"I'm the most powerful man in the world, the most powerful metahuman, and, yet, I have this weakness, this glaring vulnerability." Sylar stopped moving and stood, so very still, staring until Mohinder started to shudder.

"What do you want from me? Do you want me to apologize? Or I can leave right now. Leave you to yourself."

Sylar moved faster than Mohinder could process, gripping his upper arms and glaring into his eyes. "No, you don't get to leave. You're a part of this, now, and you don't ever get to leave." Mohinder let out a sound that wasn't quite a sob, wasn't quite a whimper. "And where would you go? Everyone else is dead, Mohinder. It's just you and me. Until the bitter end."

His lips slammed down onto Mohinder's, hands roving over his body, peeling Mohinder out of his suit and pushing him back towards the master bedroom. Mohinder let his nails tear gouges out of Sylar's skin, feeling an added thrill of arousal when it healed right before his eyes, Sylar's body as much of a show-off as the rest of him.

The bed had a plush, soft comforter over a firm mattress. Mohinder remembered being dragged out to find the mattress, taken to a store that had been closed so they could have privacy to lie back on each display until they found one they both liked. A compromise on one of the few things Sylar didn't find so important that he had to have complete control.

Mohinder's legs were pushed up, Sylar's mouth biting at his stomach, then descending onto his length. Sylar was an expert at everything he did, he had Mohinder clawing at the bedding and screaming for more within minutes. But he pulled away just before Mohinder would have his release, a circle of his fingers clamping down on the base of Mohinder's erection, suppressing the pleasure.

"Sylar!" Mohinder sobbed, pulling him up to press against his body, hips rocking, attempting to get off on frottage alone.

There was the pressure of telekinesis at his opening, because Sylar never used his hands for that, kept them occupied rubbing against Mohinder's nipples and gripping a bruise onto Mohinder's hip. Finally, finally, Sylar thrust forward, perfectly placed to penetrate into Mohinder, a deep, burning caress that hammered to his prostate.

It could last for hours, going on and on as Sylar worked out years of frustration, but it only lasted minutes. They were both too filled with adrenaline and dread to show any restraint, clawing at each other, pushing and pulling until they could break. Mohinder came first, because Mohinder always came first, giving away and showing that his will was ever so slightly weaker.

He felt Sylar's orgasm, then fell into blissful darkness.

***

"Mohinder Suresh." His head whipped around to stare at a striking blond woman and a black man. Both of them were very familiar.

He started moving backwards, watching them with unblinking eyes. The one was the terrorist who had attacked him, almost taken him out of the safety of his lab. "How did you get in here?" Even a parlor in the residence was as protected as the Oval Office.

The woman took longer to place, but as she glared at him he realized she had been in Linderman's files: they were one of his experiments. Both metahumans of some power, both most likely with chips on their shoulders. And Mohinder was once again alone, having the sinking feeling that Sylar's insistence of spending every moment of the day together might have been a better idea than he had thought.

"You know how we got in here," the man stated, hands clenching into fists, then unclenching, in an erratic pattern.

"Killing me won't help you. The president will hunt you down, you'll never find peace." There was no panic button in this room, just a phone off to the side that could be used to call security. No cameras, either, no one was watching Mohinder.

The blonde moved to quickly for him to avoid, grabbing Mohinder's wrists and slamming him into an end table. "No, but killing the president will bring us what little peace we can have. He's the reason our son is dead, he's the reason our friends are dead, that _Peter's_ dead."

Mohinder's eyes widened. "You knew Peter?"

"I _loved_ Peter."

Looking at her face, he knew that she thought she was telling the truth. "I…things aren't what they appear. You should leave, it's dangerous for you to be here."

"It's dangerous for us to exist," the man drew Mohinder's attention back to him. There was a new layer to the rage he was displaying, a sad note whenever he looked towards the blonde. "But the vice president is a coward, as soon as he's in control he'll be bullied to put everything back the way it was. There won't be any of Petrelli's precious global nation and a shit load less spent on trying to wipe us out." He smirked. "And you can get us close to him."

"I can understand your motivation, but why in the world would you think I'd go along with you?"

The woman spoke, "Peter told me about you. Said you weren't a bad person, that you were just too focused on your research to see the evil that Nathan was doing. Nathan made you into a _mass murderer_."

She said the name 'Nathan' like she had known him, too. Mohinder wondered just how connected to the Petrellis she had been. Would Sylar recognize her on sight? Did he even know about her? They had timed their break-in well, when Sylar was busy giving a speech and _had_ to be on camera. There was no question as to whether he could leave early or not. Mohinder could get them out of here before that, give them whatever false promises they wanted and then, after they were gone, tell Sylar that he missed him during the day, would agree to follow him around like some kicked puppy. If this woman had been so close to Peter, had known Nathan…he owed them enough to save her life.

"I know you're his prag or something, but all that lovey-dovey bullshit can't be real. No one could love someone that evil." The man was pacing the room, now, the woman nodding along with his words.

"What are your names? Who are you?" They exchanged looks. "You obviously know all about me."

"Niki, and he's D.L.," the woman finally said, a sour expression on her face.

"And you think you can assassinate the most powerful man in the world?"

D.L. snorted. "What can he do? Fly? Yeah, I think we can take him."

"We just need to get him away from those guards of his, which is where you come in. I doubt he has you two watched all the time." Niki laughed, a tired, dead sound. "I know he's not that kinky."

Mohinder couldn't resist, he laughed, too. "You want to kill him…when he and I are about to have sex?"

"Are you always having sex when alone?"

He shrugged. "Having sex, about to have sex, recovering from having sex." Mohinder liked the awkward expressions on their faces. Words were the only weapons he could use against them.

"Peter said you were a good person back in the day, Dr. Suresh. _Be_ a good person."

Mohinder shook his head. "He already ruined me, staying loyal to him keeps me at a certain level of luxury. Why would I want to make myself an outlaw?" Mohinder sat down heavily, fingers slipping into his jacket pockets.

It was a trial to keep his eyes from widening as his fingers encountered his cell phone. He wanted these people to go away, to stop filling him with hope while tearing apart his heart. He hated Sylar, yes, but he loved him, too.

"You want me," he moved his free hand as he talked, drawing their attention away from his pocket as he opened his cellphone and pressed the "send" button, "to take part in premeditated murder?"

"You wouldn't even have to get your hands dirty." Niki gave a snort as D.L.'s words and Mohinder could imagine she wanted to mention how blood stained his hands already were.

Mohinder leaned back in the chair, putting both hands on his lap. "I know you blame the president for quite a bit, and he is responsible for a lot of bad, but, Niki, Peter was a terrorist. The same as Hiro Nakamura and D.L., here. You're breaking countless laws just by being in here."

There was a noise outside the door and all three of them tensed. Niki and D.L. were perhaps expecting the door to give way under the bodies of multiple secret service agents hitting into it. They definitely weren't expecting it to fly apart, shards heading straight towards them.

D.L. grabbed Niki and the large splinters passed through them, embedded into the wall. Mohinder moved, going further away from them. He knew better than to be caught in this crossfire.

Niki jumped at Sylar-as-Nathan, but was thrown back, both her and D.L. held against the wall, heads slamming hard against it so that D.L. wouldn't be able to concentrate. The window beside them broke into shards and Sylar maneuvered them into the two intruders. Mohinder suppressed his gag reflex at the sight of the sharp pieces sluicing through flesh. Both of them were screaming, convulsing from the pain.

"You're not Nathan," Niki managed as the glass worked its way into her, beginning to cut her open from the inside out.

Sylar dropped the illusion and stepped over a few pieces of disrupted furniture and get to them. "No, I'm not." He paused, cocking his head to the side with a wide, sinister smile as Niki began to sob, skin sloughing off of her muscles and falling in wet piles to the ground. "I'm much more fun than he ever was."

He was more focused on Niki than D.L., Mohinder realized that he must not have gotten a look at D.L. in the lab, or else nothing would stop him from torturing the man who hurt Mohinder. D.L.'s eyes began to focus through the pain and Mohinder could see the exact moment his body began to phase. Sylar had been pushing him, hard, against the wall, and with the loss of a solid form he fell straight through, out into the yard as Niki gave her screeching death rattle.

Mohinder was proud of himself when he didn't throw up, when he stumbled to the gasping Parkman who had once again entered a moment too late and clutched onto his shirt. They were both staring, aghast, at Sylar, who didn't have a drop of blood on him despite the pile of what had once been a beautiful woman resting at his feet.

"Whoa," Parkman murmured, eyebrows going up in a sharp arch. "…Are you okay?"

It was likely that Parkman could feel how hard Mohinder was shaking, but Mohinder put the question down to the fact that he was clinging to Parkman as if he would fall over otherwise. There was no other choice for the comforting feel of another human body, he couldn't imagine touching Sylar after what he had just witnessed and no one else was allowed in the room, yet. It wouldn't do for them to see the president's form.

"I'm…I'll be fine." Parkman's arms went around him in an awkward hug. It was probably the first he had given in years. "I just…they were there, and then Sylar, and he…."

"Yeah, I can see that."

Sylar had cut open her skull while Mohinder's back was turned, but when he finished he rushed to him, taking him from Parkman. He ran his fingers over Mohinder, checking for any damage. He was shaking, too, but when their eyes met Mohinder knew that it was rage fueling it.

"Mohinder," Sylar shifted to Nathan's form as he spoke, seconds later some of Parkman's men rushed through the door, "those were the terrorists from before?"

"Just the man, I haven't seen the woman before. Well, not in person, just pictures. She said she knew Peter and…and you." Mohinder widened his eyes as he said the last part.

"I can' t remember her. I must have met her before I became a senator." They both watched as Parkman ordered a clean up, the agents not even blinking at the wrecked room and the mangled body. "The man got away, again."

Mohinder rested his head against Sylar's shoulders, forcing himself to relax and put the murder out of his mind. "It's not your fault, she seemed like the threat," he soothed, feeling ridiculous.

Parkman kept glancing back at Mohinder, an unreadable expression on his face. Mohinder ignored him, a feat that was getting easier and easier as the days went by, and focused his attention on Sylar's quiet rage.

~~~

He jerked awake, leaning back in his chair and cracking his neck. A quick glance at his watch confirmed it was near-dawn. He must have fallen asleep while working.

Looking at the computer screen, Mohinder realized that it wasn't the cramping of his neck, but a message that had drawn him out of his sleep. An instant message box had popped up, with a screen name he didn't recognize.

**Dr. Suresh**, it read, **did you know Nathan Petrelli was Sylar?**

Mohinder flexed his fingers, then typed: **Who is this?**

**he killed Niki**

**DL?**

**we can't let Sylar keep control of the country  
we can't let him take control of the world**

**DL, I can't help you.**

**you'd rather fuck a serial killer?**

He shuddered, then stood from his chair to pace around the small area behind his desk. Hearing the movement, the Secret Service agent outside the door glanced in, exchanging a wry smile with Mohinder before returning to stare blankly down the hall. They had gotten used to his late night movements, even if the president often told them that if they found him asleep they were to escort him to the presidential bedroom immediately. Everyone had just made sure to never see Mohinder when he was sleeping.

Mohinder stopped in front of the keyboard. **What do you want?**

**he has to have a weakness**

He gave a shaky laugh when he realized the only real answer was to type "me" into the box. He was in deep, thinking of Sylar as his weakness and he as Sylar's. Maybe that wasn't true, though. Mohinder knew that Sylar's first love would always be power. Any kind of power.

**What would you do, if you go him while he was vulnerable?**

**put him down  
like he's done to so many of us**

**…I have something. A device. It would block everyone's powers within a fifty foot radius for a short period of time.**

There was a long pause. **you have it?**

**A prototype, my lab just made it.  
He doesn't know about it.**

**can you get it and get somewhere out in the open?**

Mohinder nodded at the screen. **If you kidnap me, he'll follow….**

**and we can trap him**

It couldn't be that easy to get free.

***

Mohinder agreed to a new detail of guards. He let them follow him everywhere, let them enter buildings and rooms before him. It even got to the point where someone tested all of his food.

That was why it was so easy for D.L. to "kidnap" him: The extra security, and the fact Mohinder wasn't protesting it, made everyone complacent. One day two guards turned down a corridor, with two slowly coming up behind Mohinder, and a hand reached out through the wall and grabbed him.

D.L. left just enough of a trail that Sylar could follow, Mohinder screaming out in his mind help and Sylar and what's happening? what's he going to do to me? I don't want to die?

Everything was in place. Even though D.L. would be without his powers, he had never relied on them to win a physical battle. Sylar didn't really stand a chance.

Mohinder sat back in a side room in the abandoned building D.L. had chosen, tapping out patterns on a battered metal desk. He could see the main room from where he sat, saw the exact moment Sylar entered, then stumbled to his feet as his ability to fly was cut off.

He couldn't remember the last time he had seen Sylar bleed like he was after only a few punches, skin turning bright red in anticipation of bruises.

***

The device ticked, the small timer counting down the thirty minutes it had to work. Ten by the time Mohinder made his presence known, stepping onto the scene as D.L. gave Sylar another punch, then another, until blood was spraying over both of them from Sylar's broken nose.

Even through the pain his eyes, there was a flash of betrayal as Sylar noticed Mohinder. Sylar stared at him as he took a fist to his stomach, a kick to his side. As if it was Mohinder who was beating him.

"I thought you were just going to kill him." Mohinder crossed his arms to keep from fidgeting, to keep from flinching each time a blow landed.

D.L. pulled back, wiping sweat and drops of blood from his forehead. "What, you think he deserves a quick death? After all the pain he's caused? After the _thousands_ he's killed?"

"Me."

"What?"

Mohinder walked farther into the ring of light surrounding Sylar, stopping just behind and to the side of D.L. "I killed them." Sylar was clutching at himself, rolled into a ball on the floor, pathetic and whimpering, but Mohinder could see just the slightest upwards tilt of his lips at those words. "Sylar ordered it, but I carried it out."

D.L.'s expression closed. "You…were ordered to kill them, Mohinder. And you didn't know it was for fucking _Sylar_. There you were, thinking the president was a good guy, convincing yourself what you were doing was right, and then it's actually a motherfucking murderer."

There was a pause, then a liquid, coughing laugh split the air. Sylar was sitting, now, watching them. Whenever his eyes lit on Mohinder, there was the mixture of possession and softness he was used to, but a lurking darkness that Mohinder hadn't seen in years. It reminded him too much of that first time he had Sylar in a vulnerable position, trapped in a chair and powerless, but still not weak. Still in control.

He realized, staring at Sylar as he stared at them, that he would always be Sylar's. His life had become focused on him, a point of pure black in the darkness. Killing him, watching him be killed, it wouldn't make any difference.

Slowly, so slowly, he reached behind him, watching as D.L. turned back to the laughing Sylar and pulled a knife from his boot. D.L. would kill Sylar, would watch the blood running from his throat. He would want to feel that sticky redness on his hands and know he had avenged his wife, his friends, his son.

But Mohinder had never liked being hands-on, had never taken the opportunity to feel someone's life fleeing his body. And it was a gun he felt heavy in his hand. The same hand gun that had followed him throughout his journey pointing straight at D.L.'s back.

Sylar was sprayed with the blood, had to roll out of the way as the body fell. The ticking stopped.

 

Epilogue:

Mohinder didn't think Sylar believed in a god, but he proved over and over again that he was more than capable of worship. His hands splayed over Mohinder's body, brushing lightly, reverently over his twitching, shivering flesh. This was love, he realized once again.

"Sylar," he began, but it came out like a gasp, like a prayer. "Sylar," he said again, "I'm…."

"Shhh," Sylar breathed out into his stomach, tongue trailing in lazy patterns of circles and infinity.

He had imagined Sylar dying. Had seen it in his mind over and over again. He had relished the visions, but now the thoughts weren't so pleasant. Mohinder couldn't imagine what he would be without Sylar, how he could go back to being just another scientist, just another professor, after everything he experienced. He could imagine Sylar dying, but he couldn't imagine himself living with it.

"I'm sorry." Mohinder could repeat those words with every breath and still mean them.

Sylar laughed, air brushing against the trails of drying saliva. "I'm starting to think of it as foreplay."

Mohinder laughed, too, because it was something ridiculous--they always had the best sex after a betrayal. And they'd never let the other one die, it would defeat their purpose.


End file.
